


i'm crying in popeye's, please don't look at me

by sulfuric



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gay Panic, M/M, pretty much exactly what it says on the tin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 21:50:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sulfuric/pseuds/sulfuric
Summary: thomas is sad after work and decides to go get some fried chicken at that place with the really cute cashier. gay panic ensues.





	i'm crying in popeye's, please don't look at me

**Author's Note:**

> this is most definitely not based upon my own personal life! please enjoy the dumbest story i have ever written

The reason why Thomas is crying in Popeye’s is not entirely relevant to this story, but here’s the reason anyway:

Thomas did not have the greatest day at work. After work ended, all he wanted to do was go home - but then the bus was _ exceptionally _late, making him wait an entire twenty one (21) minutes at the stop outside work before it picked him up. Then, since the bus was late and there was a ton of other people waiting at the stop, he did not get a seat. Not getting a seat meant standing for another entire thirty (30) minutes before arriving home, after already standing for an entire eight (8) hours at work.

It was a text from his mother that broke this incredibly emotionally volatile camel’s back. 

He was leaning against the plastic barrier separating the standing space from a row of seats and trying to not creepily watch the youtube video on the stranger’s phone (some sort of vlog type thing with a lot of enthusiastic gesticulations; Thomas remembers when he was that excited about life) when the message came in on his own screen. He thought, with a sigh, _ god, I really don’t have the energy for her to be on my case about school again _, and then ripped off the metaphorical bandaid, opening his phone to go directly to the text on grounds of getting it over with as soon as possible.

However, there was no such school themed nagging as previously suspected, nothing of the sort. Instead, there was simply a video file, all by its lonesome with an innocent and vaguely familiar landscape as the thumbnail photo. _ This can’t be anything too awful, _Thomas thought.

_ This isn’t going to take the lid off all the negative emotions I’ve been carefully bottling, _Thomas thought.

_ This isn’t going to make me cry on public transit, _Thomas thought.

You see, Thomas thought. 

A lot of the time, Thomas _ thinks _and he focuses on what Teresa told him about manifesting his energy into the universe and controlling his own destiny and all of that other stuff that she used to convince herself things were fine all the time.

Thomas thought, but he evidently did not manifest.

The video, when opened, started off with an upbeat sort of guitar tune that immediately identified itself as some off-brand royalty free background music. Then the title appeared, and Thomas knew that this was one of those slideshows that Apple puts together based on your photos in your camera roll.

The theme of this slideshow so generously sent by Thomas’ mother: _ Furry Friends. _

There was a very short moment where his brain short-circuited and assumed that that meant his mom had been spending a lot of time around, like, literal furries, but then he removed that one weird girl from his discord chat out of his brainspace and actually looked at his screen.

And what was there was, subjectively, so, so much worse.

Staring back at him was a photo of his family dog, Bark, smiling with his tongue lolling out to the side. The photo was awkwardly zoomed in and tracking to the right, just about to cut off the left side of his face before it dissolved into another shot, this time an older one of him standing on Thomas’ back, Teresa smiling as she held a treat above the two of them. 

Thomas’ heart lurched, throat constricting almost immediately as he tried not to cry. He hadn’t seen Bark in a solid four (4!) months, and it was just then hitting him how much he missed the little guy. He couldn’t remember the last time he hugged his dog (nor a human person, but that’s for us to unpack another day) and this barrage of pictures new and old was not helping him contain his already poorly contained emotions.

He looked up swiftly in order to prevent a tear from escaping his eye - _ no sir, not today, you may go right back from whence you came _ \- and noticed that the bus had, at some point, magically teleported to his stop. _ Thank God. _He peeled himself off the barrier and hopped down onto the street through the open doors, taking in a deep breath of significantly cooler air. 

Normally, Thomas turned left from the bus stop to go home. But he exited the bus facing right, which put a glowing beacon of orange right in his (blurry) field of vision. And what, pray tell, could this beacon of orange possibly be? For Thomas’ brain, it was apparently a Good And Safe Object To Walk Towards, because before he could even make the decision, he was already heading in the opposite direction from his house. 

(For us normal people not currently experiencing a dog picture induced emotional crisis, it was not just a blurry beacon but one of the best damn fried chicken franchises North America had to offer.)

It was in this journey from the bus stop to Popeye’s that Thomas began to cry in earnest, pouty lips and staccato breaths and everything. And Thomas was not a guy that was ashamed of his emotions - yes, he bottled everything up and ignored his feelings a lot of the time, but that was just because he was stupid and didn’t want people to worry about him, not because he was all _ grr grr boys can’t cry _or anything like that - so he decided that the thirty seconds it would take to reach the door to that shining chicken establishment would be his designated time to let it rip, emotionally. It was dark out and there weren’t many people around, plus he had some sad, wistful music going in his headphones, so it was the perfect opportunity.

Unfortunately, the stylings of Mr. Styles himself ended up hitting Thomas a little _ too _hard (maybe someday he WOULD call Harry and tell him that he’s sorry, too) because there were still fresh tears scoping out real estate on Thomas’ cheeks by the time he stepped into the Popeye’s, glaring fluorescents sobering him enough to make him take out his headphones and realize that, oh, shit.

He is actively crying in a fucking Popeye’s.

(So, now you’re up to speed. Thomas is crying in a Popeye’s and we’re all well aware as to why.

And by _ we _ I mean you and I, and Thomas, because no one else in that Popeye’s knows why Thomas is currently the most violent sniffer on the whole block - an impressive feat considering the unfortunate neighbourhood in which he resides. Everyone else just thinks he’s a weirdo - _ not _an impressive feat considering the unfortunate neighbourhood in which he resides. 

The regular patrons of this Popeye’s are well accustomed to this kind of thing, jaded and unaffected by the various unhinged personalities that tend to wander through. Thomas, usually the former, is now the latter.)

He takes a brief moment to consider just how he managed to get to this point in his life before he snaps back into reality, eyes unfortunately locking with the cute blond cashier whose face is currently sporting a daunting cross between dead inside, concerned, and afraid. 

Thomas brings a hand up to his face, wiping in a fashion that is probably a little too violent for the cashier to think that Thomas is an entirely normal person. You know, the normal people that cry in fast food restaurants. It’s the lowest tier of fast food crazy, and considering it’s past one in the morning, it’s probably not even the worst thing this dude has seen on his shift so far. If anything, Thomas is probably a breath of fresh air for this guy. 

Or, that’s what Thomas is gonna tell himself as he snorts up all the mucus in his body. 

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

While Thomas wouldn’t say he’s a _ frequent _ consumer of Popeye’s fried chicken, he’s apparently there enough to realize that this is that one nice cashier he likes. He knows that his name is _ Newt _without even looking down to check his name tag, and he knows that he is only ever here in the absolute ass hours of the night.

He is also, currently, staring at Thomas expectantly, patience visibly thinning by the second. 

“Oh, uh,” Thomas says at the exact same time Newt says, “What can I-” the two of them effectively cutting each other off, now at a standstill. 

Newt gives a thin smile, and raises his eyebrows. Thomas figures that’s his cue.

“Okay, um,” he starts, pretending to scan the menu - throwing in a watery squint for good measure - even though he has not once gotten anything other than the two piece combo with fries and coke. “I think I’ll have the two piece combo with fries and coke.”

“Mild or spicy?” Newt asks, fingers hovering over the screen, ready to punch in the order.

“Mild,” Thomas answers, nearly snorting out a laugh but stopping himself at the last second. He’d gotten away without having any voice cracks so far, but he didn’t want to push his luck. He doesn’t need Cute Newt thinking that he’s hysterical, too. 

“Okay, that’ll be nine seventy.” 

Thomas knows that it’s nine seventy. He knows this just as he knows that the meal combo comes with a medium drink, and not enough fries, and a biscuit that’s probably going to be room temperature seeing as this is not exactly fried chicken rush hour, here. Thomas is not a Popeye’s amateur. He knows to wait until Newt gives him his receipt before he walks away, because it’s going to have his order number on it. 

Thomas may be crying a little bit still, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

He taps his card on the reader and doesn’t make eye contact with Newt while the machine prints the receipt. You know, he’d actually had some pretty fine interactions with Newt over the past few months. Not that he’d ever make a move on him while he was working because that was an incredibly shitty thing to pull, but, like. They were friendly. Approaching flirty, maybe? Thomas could never really figure that whole thing out. But whatever it was, there wasn’t any of it taking place tonight. Could he go so far as to say that Bark was a cockblock? 

“Receipt?” Newt’s voice drew Thomas sharply out of his thoughts, brown eyes suddenly very bright and very close, and, holy fuck, fingertips brushing his. Fingertips! Brushing! His!

Should Thomas feel a little more pathetic for having his heart be jumpstarted at the mere contact of skin with an attractive stranger? Does this mean there _ is _some sort of unspoken recurring half thing between them? Does Newt actually remember Thomas and like when he comes into the store or does he oh so gently hand receipts to every customer that comes in here crying at one in the morning? Should he say something? Make a move? Tell a joke? Run right out of there? 

These are the thoughts that go through Thomas’ mind in the two seconds that his skin is in direct contact with Newt’s, receipt held between their hands like some weird otherworldly lightning rod for frantic gay tenderness. “Thanks,” he says finally, smiling(?) like a normal person(?). 

Newt nods and then turns back to prepare the food. And by “prepare”, we obviously mean just grab the various components from their “warming” trays behind the counter. While he does that, Thomas decides to lean against a chair at one of the tables. He does not sit, because if he sits he will probably go on his phone again, which will open to the slideshow of Bark pictures, and we all know how that is going to end. 

While leaning, Thomas does choose to scope out the other patrons of this fine food establishment. It’s a bit of a power move if he does say so himself, seeing as he’s definitely the weirdest one there. Taking stock, this is what he comes up with: a gross couple making out in the corner, meals half eaten and fully abandoned; a dude in a hoodie with massive headphones and eyes closed; and a group of three friends ravenously tearing into their chicken, barely even stopping to breathe between bites. 

And Newt, of course. There’s another employee flitting around somewhere in the back, but Newt’s the only one up front. And, oh, yeah, he’s looking at Thomas. 

He twitches up to a standing position, suddenly alert and waiting for Newt to repeat whatever Thomas clearly just missed. But Newt doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking, and - god, is he - _ smiling _?

Maybe Thomas isn’t delusional. Maybe he _ should _make a move. Maybe-

“Here’s your coke,” Newt says, sliding what is definitely not a medium sized cup across the counter. 

_ Maybe. _

“Thanks.”

“Food’ll be ready in just a minute.”

“Thanks.”

He decides that that’s the only word he trusts himself to say, or else he might say other words like _ would you like to share this gourmet meal with me and then make out for a while? _And Thomas does not want to harass Newt in his place of work, even if maybe possibly he might _ want _to share this gourmet meal with Thomas and then make out for a while. 

“For here or to go?”

Thomas considers. He could get it for here and make awkward pseudo flirty eye contact with this boy for another ten minutes, but that would mean he’d be eating in public, alone, at one in the morning, while not crying but still kind of crying, which is. Hm.

“To go, please.”

Newt nods all customer service like and Thomas swears that he looks a little sad. 

_ Maybe??? _

There’s about another minute of external silence, where, internally, Thomas is screaming. Newt disappears for a portion of that time, then comes back. Another collection of seconds passes and then after that he turns around once more and hands him his food, neatly packed inside a box inside a bag. 

“Thanks.”

“Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Thomas grabs his partially crumpled receipt and tosses it in the bag, promising to catalogue it later in that spending spreadsheet he said he’d actually use once he got a job. And then that’s that, and he is out the door and back into the crisp nighttime air, not a fluorescent nor a Newt - salamander _ or _human - in sight. He is proud to announce that he does not cry on this leg of his trip home, but that can mostly be merited to the fact that the Bark slideshow is far from his mind, a certain cashier taking its place.

It’s nice to dream up a world where maybe he could have an incredibly unrealistic meet cute that ended in a date, or a relationship, or whatever, but it’s not quite late/early enough for Thomas to let himself sink into a daydream like that without thinking about the consequences. He’s trying to be an adult. He has a _ job _ , for god’s sake _ . _He needs to focus on living in the real world without needing to escape to other, made up ones. 

Or, whatever crap his therapist is constantly telling him. And yes, he’s _ working on it _, but he tends to still zone out for a good portion of those sessions. It’s not his fault that his therapist’s severe facial structure would be much better suited to that of the head of an evil scientist lady trying to cure the world of some zombie disease or something. 

(Actually, that’s not a bad one. Maybe he should write that down. She’s always telling him to write these things down.)

Anyway - Thomas is a newly self-proclaimed realist which means that he is going to go home and eat his fried chicken alone and then he is going to go to bed and Newt is not going to magically show up and profess his undying love for him.

As lovely as that would be. 

Thomas reminds himself that it is also lovely to be able to eat fried chicken as he so pleases, and that not everything has to be extravagant in his life. So, he sits on his couch and tears into his meal without another thought spared towards blond haired boys and electric fingertips. 

Though, he notices several things:

His drink is definitely a size large.

There are more fries than usual. 

And the biscuit is actually hot, like it came from a tray that was fresh out of the oven. 

Thomas smiles, and then something possesses him to reach back into the empty bag. His hands land on the receipt, and he lifts it carefully out of the bag like he’s handling an artifact in a museum. Maybe everything in his life doesn’t _ have _ to be extravagant, but he’ll be damned if he’s not gonna _ make _it extravagant when he can.

The chicken settles in his stomach, letting out a low, foreboding grumble. He unfolds the receipt slowly. He never did look at it after Newt gave it to him, gay panic overriding the part of his brain that got anxious about fast food workers calling out his order number. Come to think of it, Newt never even called out his order number. He blinks down at the paper for the first time. It’s just a normal receipt, order number and all. Nothing special about it.

Except.

There’s a faint shadow on it, kind of loopy and offset from the rest of the text, like there’s something written on the back of the paper. 

He thinks of Newt’s smile, and how it only appeared once Thomas came into the store. He thinks of all the scowls and grimaces he’s seen grace Newt’s beautiful face in all his past visits, all of them directed at other customers. He thinks of how Newt’s always been notably pleasant to him, more so than any other fast food worker Thomas has encountered.

Maybe he’s just _ really _good at his job.

Or-

Maybe. 

Thomas downs the last of his coke, shoves a few fries in his mouth, and then flips the receipt over. 

And, well, _ shit. _

_ 416-555-2500. Newt x _

  


**Author's Note:**

> let me know how stupid you thought this was in the comments!!! or if you have also cried in a fast food establishment during the ass hours of the morning!!! (or come jam w me on [tumblr](http://00250.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/wcckd))


End file.
